I hope to leave behind a few poems it will be hard to get rid of.

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak.

There never was any heart truly great and generous, that was not also tender and compassionate.

What we live by we die by.

Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.

How many times it thundered before Franklin took the hint! How many apples fell on Newton's head before he took the hint! Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and over again. And suddenly we take the hint.

I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.